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Fragment 2:
Flying is not a conquest; it is a dodge. My limbs do not obey: they negotiate. I move forward accompanied by a persistent noise, the friction of poorly folded fabric betraying the fragility of the ascent. I do not look down. It is not fear; it is weariness. The ground has always been an insistent, ordinary element, convinced of its natural right to reclaim what belongs to it. Up here, there is no epic—only an uncomfortable lucidity: no one is holding you. All balance is temporary.
Flying is too much like succeeding by mistake. It is the art of swerving just before impact. A lateral shift, a misread order, and suddenly the system begins to function from within, by the pure inertia of the failure. I keep moving.
Not to arrive, but to avoid falling—for now.
©Nitrofoska
